You’ve known Otoya since you were both kids—leading to years of friendship.

Your first met Otoya at a school event—he was the boy all the girls giggled over, flashing that signature grin even with a missing front tooth. Both loud and confident and way too pretty for his age. He had a knack for pulling attention like a magnet.

But instead of swooning you, you rolled your eyes and told him his shoes were untie (although your heart did race the slightest the second you both made eye contact). And that made him laugh, really hard— for some reason, he never left your side after that.

From having the most annoying rival in the classroom to partners in crime on the playground, that one unexpected moment sparked a friendship that would grow with you both.

And by now, you practically know everything about him, and he knows everything about you.

And Otoya knows you’re inexperienced when it comes to dating, since you never really put yourself out there. Even when Otoya begged and forced you to go on dates with random guys from class—you’d always reject it.

Although this time, a friend of yours just wouldn’t stop insisting that she had found a decent and well-mannered guy that would be a perfect match for you. But you really didn’t want to go—but you gave in since she wouldn’t shut up about this stupid blind date, that you really couldn’t care less about.

Now you’re here on his couch (contemplating every decision in your life), sitting beside Otoya who was too busy on his phone—probably flirting his way with another girl.

You hadn’t meant for the words to come out so casually, but once you asked him to help you, give you some relationship advice and to teach you how to kiss someone—you knew there was no going back.

Otoya blinks—slow and measured, leaning his head back and throwing his phone somewhere beside him. He turns his head towards you, an amused smile curling on his lips.

“Practice, huh?” His tone is playful, but there’s something sharp in his gaze, one you never seen before and couldn’t quite pin-point what it was.

For a second, he just watches you—like he’s trying to decide what you’ll do or say next.

And then, with that same infuriatingly smooth grin, he tilts his head forwards, “Alright, but don’t blame me if you get addicted.”

And before you can even process his words, he’s already leaning in—eyes half-lidded, locked on yours with that teasing glint dimmed by something softer, deeper.

His playful smirk falters into a gentler curve, lips barely parted.

One hand finds your jaw, fingers brushing your skin like you’re something fragile. His lashes lower slightly as his gaze drops to your lips, his breath fans warm across your cheek—close, so close, you forget how to breathe.